


Training Scars

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Chronic Pain, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 13:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16873836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Gladio understood pain as a temporary thing. He couldn't imagine it as a constant in his life.





	Training Scars

Training was dangerous. Gladio had known it from the start. He had wandered the halls of his home to view all the badges of honour and broken weapons of his family— the pristine blades and shields enshrined in the Citadel as testaments to the successes of the Amicitia lineage, the broken and shattered remains set on proud display in the family home as a testament to their loyalty. He remembered his first broken bone— knocked back by a larger boy in Crownsguard training, the weight of his training sword too much for him off balance. He still carried the scars of every inattentive movement and careless step. 

And he carried them proudly. 

“Don’t cover them up,” his father had always said. “They’re badges of honour. And reminders of every lesson.”

“Remember your failures,” was Cor’s advice as he dragged the wounded, bleeding young Amicitia to his feet; “and do better.”

Gladio expected the scars. He expected the calluses and bandages and days— weeks, months— of recovery when he slipped in a stance or let someone get the better of him. He expected the burn of pulled muscles, ripped muscles. Weeks with crutches to nurse a knee or ankle. And the shame of slings that took him out of training for longer than he could ever want. 

He had seen the family photos of his father’s own exploits. And remembered the wide eyed questions before Iris came along. He remembered the questions and excitement, the laughter from his father at every wince and cringe between stories. 

He had never expected to be sworn in as Noctis’ Shield without a few broken bones and badges of honour under his belt. 

But Noctis was wary of scars when they were young. He shied away from bandages— often suffering the most basic of first aid in silence while Ignis eased the pain of a missed step or lucky strike with soft words Gladio had never listened to. He had watched as the Prince vehemently refused to see nurses, and pleaded his way out of trips to the hospitals. He had watched, souring at what he thought was cowardice, as Noctis hid injuries until necessary, or raided the supplies for potions and elixirs as he needed, if he needed. 

He had watched as Ignis fetched the supplies for him, as the Prince stayed where he fell, awkward angles and barely contained tears. Soft whimpers that bit at the heart of him in the echoing training chambers. He had been relieved when Noctis grew into sense, and took to seeing medics and doctors with a sullen aloofness that Gladio had realised was his resignation at the inevitable. 

It wasn’t until they were nearly constant companions that he saw the real pain in the Prince’s eyes on the worst days. 

“It’s the scar,” Ignis would say on the days Noctis couldn’t come to training. On the days Noctis refused to venture further than the close comforts of his apartment. “It hurts on days like this.”

Gladio understood pain to be temporary. It was a flash of sharp bite, a cringing, hissing moment gone in a flash. It was a dull throb or a distant ache after the worst was over— an annoyance at the back of his mind. It was a crack one moment, blinding him to the world for a short time. 

He had never thought that pain might not go away. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like for the pains he thought were over resurfacing, just because of weather or an awkward night. 

“Shit…” was the first thing he said when he saw the scar that crossed Noctis’ lower back and disappeared towards this thigh, covered by his clothing. 

He had known about the attack. About Tenebrae and his father’s fierce protectiveness of the King and Prince that had returned with them. He had known of the injury and nightmares. The daemons and darkness that still trailed after Noctis. He knew that Noctis favoured his right side when he could, and had to stretch more. He knew that there were limitations and areas they were working on, like endurance and strength. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Knowing from some report and file, was different than seeing the aftermath of a real attack.

“Stop gawking and get me that pillow, would you?” 

Gladio couldn’t imagine that kind of pain. 

He tried, at times. 

When he nearly lost his eye and woke to Noctis dozing in his hospital room, he spent hours imagining the pain from the cut might never leave him. He imagined the dull throb of headache on days when Noctis’ old injuries pained him. He imagined the tired, frustrated twist of that ache beating in time with his pulse forever. 

But it faded.

“You ever think of covering it up?” Gladio asked one day, as Noctis stretched and twisted as his back demanded. “You know, to not think about it?”

“Would that stop it from hurting?”

“Probably not.”

“Then no.”

He learnt that Noctis still hurt because the Oracle hadn’t finished her healing. That the worst was gone, but the attack had interrupted them. And Lucis didn’t specialise in the right kind of magic to continue the efforts to heal the Prince. 

He wondered what it would have been like, if he had ever healed wrong. 

Noctis held his hand during the worst of the tattoo. Sat with him in the small shop they had picked and distracted him with mobile games and idle chatter. Noctis had laughed at his plan for the design, had told him it was ridiculous, but sat the long hours with him anyway. The shop had been small, but wildly expensive— Ignis had vetted every detail and element to show he cared in his own way. 

Gladio gripped his hand tighter as the artist worked across sensitive nerves, session after session. As the delicate work and lines were etched and pricked and he felt jolts of pain travelling across his spine. As the hours dragged on and he thought at each offer of a break, how Noctis endured. Noctis just smiled and said “easy, big guy.”

The first consultation had nearly made Gladio regret the idea. 

“Covering up those scars?” the artist had asked. 

He pushed forward because it was what he wanted. It’d be a new start, a proper promise to his Prince. There’d always be new scars, anyway. 

The first time it was finished and healed and he had wrapped Noctis in his arms, Noctis laughed. “Going to carry me off like an eagle?”

“I just might.”

He wanted to wrap Noctis up where he was safe. Where he was laughing and carefree. Pain free. He wanted to laugh with Noctis and fold around him on the worst days when a few scars from training sounded like a walk in a park.


End file.
